The Colour of Light Part IV: Interlude
by oleanderhoney
Summary: He pictures the spidering fissures of eggshell just before it implodes, jettisoning not yolk, but blood and brain matter in its wake.


_**He pictures the spidering fissures of eggshell just before it implodes, jettisoning not yolk, but blood and brain matter in its wake.**_

**AN: This is a little interlude before the next installment. I wanted to try my hand at some of my Moriarty headcanon. I don't really read a lot of fic with Moriarty's POV, but when I watch the show I just know there is a veritable gold mine of crazy all up in there. I am setting it up to make Jim a lot more disturbed for this series, and I hope I do it justice. I would love feedback on this, given the twisty labyrinths of Moriarty's mind is relatively new territory for me, seeing as how you've all helped me shape Jane and Sherlock so well.**

**Oh and I would also still love title suggestions for my redeux of TGG if anyone's interested!**

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**Obsession: Intermezzo**

James Moriarty traps the black widow with the cage of his long pale fingers, watching as it curls in on itself before skittering through the spaces and crawling towards the end of the metal table. Before it reaches the edge, he reaches into his suit jacket for a gold pen and steers it back the other direction. He taps the point of the pen behind the spider, corralling it until it crawls onto his outstretched hand. He brings it up to eye-level to admire the sleek curve of black and the blot of crimson on her belly.

"Hello, gorgeous thing, you," he whispers, his breath ghosting over her bulbous body making her shiver. He leans over and places her into the little pot of caster sugar, watching as she burrows under the white grains for a moment before placing the lid back on. He adjusts the items on the tea service tray to his liking and pulls out a stick of chewing gum from his pocket.

"She's here, sir," a voice says from behind him. James smiles his slow, cold smile and slips the gum between his teeth.

"Thank you, Andrew. Send her in," he says without turning around. The anticipation in his veins hums and throbs, and he licks the tips of his fingers before rubbing them over his lips, the winter-y peppermint from the gum making them tingle.

_Don't get too excited. We mustn't get our hands dirty._

Too right.

The _tap-click_ of expensive women's designer boots echoes from the corridor. Louboutin's if he had to put money on it. Not that he would. He hated gambling. Too easy. But good taste, he would give her that. He turns around and unbuttons his suit jacket and easily slips his hands into his trouser pockets.

"There she is!" James sing-songs just as General Shan enters the room. "So punctual. I like that in a woman."

Shan shifts tentatively on her feet. "Sir, I just have to express my sincere gratitude. Without you we would not have found passage into London. You have my thanks," she says, bowing her head slightly. James looks at the silver streaks in her hair for a moment, shining like sterling under the fluorescent lights, and decides that when he kills her, to make sure it isn't messy. He hates mess. It doesn't look good on anyone.

"Gratitude? Oh, honey, I can assure you it was no trouble," he says and gestures for her to sit at the end of the long table.

The tension seems to ease on Shan's behalf, and she earnestly makes her way to the far end. James watches her with a serrated smile.

"Tea?" he asks.

"Yes. Thank you," Shan says.

James wriggles his nose and tries to remain neutral as he brings the tea service towards him.

"I assume you've brought them with you?" he says, keeping his voice level and nonchalant. He sets about letting the tea steep in the ceramic tea kettle. There was something so methodic about making tea, and he lets the steam waft over him in a heady panacea of bergamot.

Shan reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out an envelope. She slowly slides it across the table. James's fingers twitch with anticipation, but he holds himself back, and swirls the tea in the pot.

_Patience is a virtue. Isn't that what Mummy would say? If she were still here?_

He licks his lips. Swallows the bolus of his gum.

He reaches out, and slides his prize the rest of the way to him with one delicate finger.

_Carefully. Savour it. Wouldn't do to get a paper cut._

No, wouldn't do at all.

James opens the eight-by-ten envelope and pulls out a sheaf of photos. The one on top featured a black and white still of a man with a shock of curly black hair, and piercing eyes. A little thrill runs down his spine, and he breathes out a little _'oh'_ of surprise. His antithesis, the yin to his yang, was much more striking up close. His lips twitch up into a smile. He moves to the next one.

Here the man is hailing a taxi, arm outstretched, a seemingly permanent scowl on his porcelain face. Made from the finest bone china, that face. James wonders if it's just as fragile; if it would shatter just as easily under the sole of his shoe as he bears his weight down…

He pictures the spidering fissures of eggshell just before it implodes, jettisoning not yolk, but blood and brain matter in its wake. He licks his lips again at the image, a tantalising fantasy for when he gets bored later. It's a game he's taken to playing when the lull of ennui drags him under. Killing different people, sometimes strangers simply passing on the street, inventing ways to burn them without _really_ touching. Of course for this one, he would make an exception, of course he would. He so deserved it after all, and it would be too easy to end him with just a few ounces of iron and gunpowder. No, artistry was required for this _special_ case. He smiles and flips to the next photo.

What he sees next has the smile falling flat off his face, however.

"Who is this?" he says showing the photo of a young woman with blonde hair, flint-like eyes boring into Shan. Even though his tone was quiet, she jumps in her seat regardless.

"She – she is his companion. Doctor Jane Watson."

James grits his teeth. The absolute _rage_ he feels is tantamount to an inferno boiling under his skin.

"So our detective found himself a little songbird, did he?" James says.

_Songbirds. Nasty little creatures. They never shut up._

Their necks are easily broken, too. If he remembers correctly.

_Mummy did like them. Remember that horrid canary?_

"They seemed to be quite close," Shan says, and James flips to another picture of the woman grinning at the pale and stoic detective – _his detective!_ – with a smile that's all light and stinking, putrescent, _utter_ devotion. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He tells Shan as much.

She misinterprets his meaning. "We did not anticipate — we did not know this man would come…" James closes his eyes and works a crick out of his neck. He brings the cups from the tea service in front of him. "…this, Sherlock Holmes…" He takes the lid off the sugar and unearths the widow from her protective dune. She skitters, and tries to burrow deeper. He takes a spoon and deposits her into one of the cups. "And now your safety is compromised."

"Don't worry," James says picking up the small pot of tea. He sees the spider curl in on herself just as he pours the boiling liquid. "they cannot trace this back to me." He smiles, and pushes the saucer towards her. She takes it, and he waits until she takes a sip before he pours some tea for himself. "I take it she's dead, then?"

Shan squirms uncomfortably in her chair. "No. She got away. Holmes came for her once he realised."

"Oohhh so he came to play the venerable white knight, did he?" James says in a high mocking voice. How…interesting for a self-proclaimed sociopath. Why would he go back for her? Unless he was just playing at being a sociopath. Now _why_ would he do _that?_

An unctuous smile crawls across his face. He picks up the photo again. Perhaps this little sparrow deserved a second look. She could be fun to bat around for a while. And she was quite fetching in her own way, if a little plain. Plain Jane.

Plain Jane.

_Plain Jane, plain Jane, plain Jane. Bottle of beer, bottle of beer. Gottle 'o geer, gottle 'o geer, gottle 'o geer —_

QUIET!

Oh, but yes…it would be fun to make her a puppet, wouldn't it? (You do have the best ideas.)

"Sir," Shan says, tremulous. "I can assure you, there are safeguards in place with my people. You're identity will not be revealed."

James raises his eyes from the photo in his hands and regards Shan with a tilt of his head. He pulls his mobile out of his pocket.

_Sent — 8:29 PM_  
Get me Moran.  
JM

"My dear. That I am certain," he says and brings his cup to his mouth, swallowing down the last dregs of his tea. Shan relaxes again and takes another sip of her own tea. He waits a few moments before speaking. "We do find ourselves in a bit of a pickle, though, don't we?"

Shan freezes, the cup of tea en route to her lips. "Sorry? I do not take your meaning."

"You had a specific objective, _General,"_ he sneers. "One that you bodged up quite spectacularly, I should say." The door behind him opens and closes, and Shan's eyes grow wide as a large man in dark suit enters the sparse room.

"The – the Empress Pin was recovered by the police, but our operation in Denmark is still on line. We've lost London, but surely —"

"You didn't _lose_ London!" he interjects sharply. "You _lost ME Sherlock Holmes!"_ he yells in crescendo face contorted in rage, and slams his fist down on the table.

Shan gasps and drops her cup. It shatters on the hard surface, the widow's corpse laying in an expanding pool of tea. She screams in horror and jumps to her feet, backing away from the table. James wrinkles his nose at the mess.

He breathes deeply through his mouth, schooling the restraint back into his frame.

"You're no use to me now, Shan. So what am I to do? I just can't let you carry on. I just can't. You understand? After all, you didn't become Black Lotus General over night. It's the way of the business," he says holding his hand out to the side. The man behind him slides a cool .45 into his palm.

"Please. Don't kill me! I can be an asset to you!" Shan says, her composure shot. James flicks off the safety and cocks the pistol. Shan backs up until she hits the stark white canvas of wall. "I have people at my disposal!" It was such a shame that he was going to have to ruin her skull after all, but it would make for a lovely masterpiece in the end. He aims the weapon. "No, wait! I have information!"

James lowers the gun, intrigued.

"What kind of information? On Sherlock?" he asks.

"No. On his brother. The elder Holmes," she says breathing hard.

"The Man of Ice…interesting," James murmurs, his mind uncoiling into various permutations and possible outcomes in seconds.

_Follow the chinks in the armor; find the Achilles heel. No one is that impenetrable._

"I also have information on the Doctor woman," Shan says. James's lips twitch into a smirk. Two for one. What a bargain.

"Very well. It seems like I won't be killing you after all," he says.

"Oh thank you. Thank you, Sir," Shan babbles, tears streaking down her face. "Thank you."

"Gratitude is meaningless, Shan," James says handing the gun to the man. "It is only the expectation of further favours. Moran, would you please retrieve the flash drive hanging around our good General's neck?"

Shan's eyes grow wide, and she struggles as Moran snatches the chain, snapping the delicate links and tossing it to James. "Wait! No, you said..."

"Leaving the original on your person? And here I thought you were smart?" James says slipping the drive into his pocket. He ticks his finger back and forth. "Naughty, naughty. Although I admire the part where you thought I would suddenly find you indispensable. Rather coy of you to think I would live up to my word. You should know by now how _fickle_ I can be."

Shan's eyes bulge with realisation, and an impossible wail sticks in her throat as her knees give way and she sinks to the floor in a blubbering pile of incoherence.

"Please, please," she mutters over and over, shielding her face with her hands as Moran looms over her.

"What do you want me to do about clean-up, Jim?" Moran says. "No fuss, no muss as per usual?"

James regards the state of the table with the spilled tea and shattered china, and sighs. "I'm afraid we're past that threshold. Have at it. I do know how you've always favoured Pollock. See if you can hit the door knob from here this time."

"Fucking _brill,"_ Moran grins, his dark eyes sparking like ember. He pulls switch blade out of his jacket pocket.

James chuckles as he walks down the corridor, his shoes a dull staccato merging with the screams.

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**The door knob reference has to do with the painter Jackson Pollock (the spatter paint guy). Someone critiqued his work saying that it was just 'chance operations' that his paintings came out so amazing. This angered Pollock because it alluded to his lack of actual skill, and from fifty feet away (on top of being pissed to boot) he picked up his brush and flung a single drop of paint which landed dead in the middle of the door knob. BAMF Jackson Pollock is BAMF.**

_Oh and I just have to give a little shout out to 'ohmygodwritersblock'. Her fic "The games we play" in my opinion, has the best Jim I've read, and I have to give credit to the use of the 'serrated smile.' I pinched it from her because it is just spine tingling-ly fantastic. So go read her thing. Do et._


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